


The reddest flag ever raised

by Captain_Mercurian



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Newt, Bonding over calculus of all things, Clueless potato!Newt, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Credence is 17 at the beginning, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Newt has a PhD in ignoring red flags, Newt is a British runaway cowboy with a limp, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, The Barebones are a huge Texan family, This is the Cowboy AU no one needed, Underage Drinking, Very bad imitation of a Southern drawl, and very much catholic of course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8975332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Mercurian/pseuds/Captain_Mercurian
Summary: "The signs had been there all along. Really, in the end, it had been his very own fault that everything had went so monumentally wrong. If there was a PhD for the ability to ignore red flags and walk straight into one's doom with a big stupid grin, he'd have it."When Newt gets invited to spend Thanksgiving with the family of his boss, Mr Barebone, little does he know that he is about to fall head over boots in love with the man's mysterious and reserved nephew. However, Credence seems to be haunted by demons that no one but Newt seem to notice and he is determined to free him of them - Even though, he doesn't even know how to get rid of his own.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic (and therefore the potrayal of the characters) was inspired by the movies 'Hick' (though Newt is not a psychopathic paedophile in this story, thank you very much!), 'Another happy day' and 'Perks of being a wall flower'.  
> I apologize for the countless inaccurate depictions of modern Western USA since my only reference is Brokeback Mountain, for Merlin's sake.  
> I hope you guys still enjoy it!

 

 

 

 _The signs had been there all along. Really, in the end, it had been his very own fault that everything had went so monumentally wrong. If there was a PhD_ _for the ability to ignore red flags and walk straight into one's doom with a big stupid grin, he'd have it._

 

Newton Artemis Fido Lurch Scamander had been known for living just a little bit too close to the edge when he was a rich little kid back in London. Skipping middle school classes to go to the zoo or breaking into a circus at night to free the caged (and very much dangerous) animals held there, weren't a rare occurrence. His parents didn't know what to do with him, especially, since their first son had turned out to be such a success – Theseus, ever the favourite – and found it therefore inexplicable how he himself managed to turn into such a failure. He was awkward and isolated, didn't care about school, talked to animals and was not interested to succumb to the family tradition that would have entailed him joining the military.

His oddness had been cute when he was 5 but gradually turned less and less bearable until his parents reached the point in which they dragged him to a Psychologist who glued the “autistic” tag onto his forehead in their very first session. From that point on, Newt gave up on trying to please his parents completely and didn't even bother to camouflage his disinterest in school and people and everything that was dear to them. The police regularly dragged him home after catching him trying to break into the zoo at night or finding him already in deep one-sided conversations with the local monkeys in the morning.

So yes, he had been known for living on the edge – He wondered if anyone had been surprised when he finally tumbled, what with running away at the age of 15 and bribing his way from London to Texas – A story he once felt quite proud of but lost its appeal over the years.

Newt never did finish school, instead, he worked on several ranches, hitch-hiked from place to place and – tempted by the idea of quick money and dangerous animals – decided to try out Rodeo. He hadn't been bad but, well, he guessed he could have been better. Even after a year, people saw him as nothing but a joke anyway – A British lanky cowboy trying to become a Rodeo king, _that boy must be out of his mind_.

In the end, they had been right.

It was the 14th of August, he remembered the sun leaving a pink tint on his skin as he barely managed to spend a second on the bull's back before his Rodeo career as well as his chances to find work at some other ranch were ruined violently. It was the moment his right leg and hip were broken and his knee crushed by the bull's hooves, that he really did feel like the embodiment of a bad joke.

The Rodeo clown got fired, Newt dragged to the hospital and that was that.

At just 23, he already felt like his life was basically over. Newt wasn't a British cowboy anymore, no, the joke had turned even better than that. Now, he was a British gimp in a cowboy costume. Of course, his limp made it impossible for him to find jobs that depended on strong bones and muscles of steel. Sadly, those were pretty much the only decent jobs that didn't require any scholar education.

After 8 years of being away, he finally contacted his parents. Sometimes, he wondered what their reaction had been like, what their faces had looked like as they realised they had gotten a letter from the failure that once had been their son – He never did find out, but he didn't care that much as his hospital bills were paid and they sent him enough money to afford a stinky motel room and a lousy burger once in a while.

After almost two months in which his search for a somewhat decent job turned out to be as fruitless as expected, he decided to leave El Paso.

Taking the bus, he eventually ended up in Austin.

It felt like a stroke of luck as he managed to get a job as a bartender, even though, he felt like his leg was killing him from all the standing around he had to do. His boss seemed to like him well enough, though, he didn't particularly enjoy the guy's random comments.  
“Newt's a good boy,” he would sometimes tell a drunken customer, clapping him on the back and making him spill some whiskey. “'s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, but this British skinny piece of ass works like a damn Mexican, let me tell ya!”

Even though, some of his comments made the vein on his temple pulse in irritation, he always smiled and kept his mouth shut, sometimes even laughed along with the man just to get him off his back. Fortunately, things got better after a year. The customers got used to him and his limp, his boss decided the “British Mexican”-jokes weren't so funny anymore and he himself slowly started to enjoy life again. Still. He was lonely.

“Scamander,” his boss mumbled one day, cigarette dangling from his lips, as he nursed a whiskey, sitting at the bar. Newt didn't stop cleaning tables but hummed once to indicate he was listening. “Y'ain't got no family, right?” He paused. “Thanksgiving is jus' round the corner, ya know. Ma' wife wouldn't mind havin' ya around for supper. It's gonna be a full house anyway, so what's one other mouth to feed, hm?”  
The thought of a 'full house' terrified him. After all, he hadn't been around a lot of people since his last Rodeo and even then, people usually kept their distance from him. His gut told him that it was a very, very bad idea to accept the offer.

He still hummed in approval.

 

Mr Barebone grinned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few other sidenotes: Newt isn't necessarily autistic. I don't think anyone can find that out in a single session. So, if there's anything going on that makes you think "that doesn't sound like an autistic person to me", there you have it.  
> Also, Eddie Redmayne looks fucking hot in a cowboy hat. Like damn.


	2. The first red flag: His family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving with the Barebones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credence is introduced!

The Barebones had a nice house, all white walls with blue windows and a neat front lawn. In fact, it was positively cute and _that_ surprised him a bit since his boss was anything but a cute person – Then again, he didn't know him that well. Not privately, that is.

 _This was a bad idea_ , Newt thought, hand curling around the napkin Mr Barebone had used to scribble the address down for him. _I should just leave_.

He was still standing there.

Newt knew that his loneliness started to get to him. On ranches, there always were some people he could exchange about three words with before going to bed and if people seemed just too tedious to deal with right now, he could sit with the horses, or cows or sheep or whatever animal was held there. Here in Austin, he lived alone in a rundown apartment – it was more of a room with a bed and a toilet, really -, the neighbours were scary rednecks, hookers and drug addicts and the random cat strolling by his window wasn't satisfying company either.  
So, maybe he was just a tad too desperate for some kind of contact and maybe, just maybe, he longed to be part of the muffled laughter he could hear even from where he was standing. Besides, it would be rude to just leave, right? Mr Barebone would be mad and would fire him if he didn't show up, right? Right.

Taking a deep breath, he climbed the three stairs to the cute blue door and stood there awkwardly for a whole minute, trying to control the twitching of his bad leg. Silently mouthing words of encouragement to himself, he finally rang the bell. The laughter subsided. Quickly, he took off his hat, ran his fingers through his slightly damp, tousled hair and tried very hard not to bolt then and there when he heard footsteps approaching.

A little, blonde girl opened the door.

Newt tried for a smile but the girl didn't smile back, instead, she resumed to stare at him out of blue round eyes. Licking his lips nervously, he forced himself to speak then.”I, er, I am Newt Scamander,” he introduced himself, kneading the rim of his hat with sweaty fingers. “Your, ehrm, I mean, _Mr Barebone_ invited me. Is... is he your father?”

No response.

He closed his eyes for a second and took a step back from the door, one foot already back on the stairs. “I guess, I am at the wrong house, then,” he mumbled, ready to bolt and tell himself it wasn't his fault that he couldn't read Mr Barebone's scribble and ended up at the wrong place.

That was when the girl decided to finally speak up: “Come in.”

It was kind of embarrassing that he flinched, startled by her voice, and then still needed a second to follow her as she walked back into the house.

Okay, so he was at the right address, then.

Closing the door behind him, he shrugged off his brown leather jacket (which looked a little ridiculous on him anyway) and hung it to the others. He tried not to panic as he realised just _how many jackets_ hung there and forced himself to follow the girl, hoping that he wouldn't embarrass himself in front of all these people and then lose his job.

“Uncle Will! Hugh Salamander is here,” the girl shouted and Newt, about to correct her mistake, stopped dead in his tracks as he stared into the living room.

A group of old ladies was sitting on a huge couch, tea cups in their wrinkled hands and watching him out of hawk-like eyes, children were running and playing, almost knocking a young woman with a bowl full of biscuits over and more than a dozen men of all ages were talking animately on a bar counter. There weren't many women around, some probably preoccupied in the kitchen (How cliché was that?) and the one's that were there, were setting the gigantic table in the joint dining area.

Mr Barebone didn't seem to be around, so he resumed standing awkwardly in the doorway, kneading his hat nervously. An old lady huffed, making him flinch. Okay, maybe he should at least _try_ to socialize a bit. Clearing his throat, he tried not to limp too much as he eventually approached them and smiled. “Newt Scamander,” he said, leaning forward and shaking hands with them while trying not to crumble under their disapproving stares.

“I thought he was Mexican,” one lady whispered as though he wasn't standing right in front them, and two of them hummed in agreement. His smile faltered a tiny bit and then there were two boys running in circles around his legs, even touching his hips while trying to fake-shoot each other with (what he hoped were) toy guns.

So, yeah, maybe this was a bad idea after all.

“Y'all better skedaddle before I come over yonder and kick yer ass!” Mr Barebone's rough voice shouted as he approached them, carefully avoiding to step on some girl's dolls lying on the floor. The boys quickly bolted out of the living room, though not without shooting Newt in the back with a small polystyrene ball. Mr Barebone shouted something about never shooting a man in the back and then turned to clap his shoulder.

“Glad ya made it, boy,” he chuckled and lead him to the group of men standing at the bar, unexpectedly slow as if he knew of Newt's sad attempt at trying to hide his limp. “Y'all listen!”

Every single head turned to them. _Oh, no_.

“This,” Mr Barebone said and clapped his shoulder again, oblivious to his frozen state and pale cheeks, “is Newton Scamander. Ma' best bartender.”  
“Your only bartender, you mean,” the young woman with the biscuit bowl said as she passed by, locking eyes with Newt for a second, before disappearing behind another blue door with a grin. The men laughed and Mr Barebone huffed in fake offence.

“This woman 's gonna be the death of me if ma' wife doesn't get to me first,” he mumbled, letting go of Newt's shoulder to lean over the counter and fix himself a drink.  
“All your fault, Willy. She was a little saint when she got here, it was your bad influence that made her mouth rot and get all loose,” one of the older men laughed and some hummed in agreement, just like the old ladies did a moment ago. The family resemblance in that regard was astonishing.

Newt tried to keep his gaze fixated on the wrist watch of the old man in front of him, so he didn't have to look anyone in the eye and remind them of his presence which they all blissfully forgot about. The man moved to let his chin rest atop his knuckles when the watch caught someone's reflection. Pale skin, dark hair and an expression far too sad for Thanksgiving. Whoever it was, looked incredibly lonely.

Standing a little straighter, he craned his neck just a tiny bit to look for the sad face hiding between all the chatting and laughter. Unfortunately, the movement reminded Mr Barebone that he dragged a guest into the circle.

“Anyway, Newt,” Another clap on his shoulder that made him flinch, “These are my brothers – Pete and Ed Barebone -, their sons – Joey, Joey 2, Jack, Johnny and Nick, the fucking rank breaker -, my cousin John Redurn and his son...”

(Newt zoned out.)

“...my new brother-in-law, Percival Graves and, lastly, my nephew Credence Barebone.”

 _Credence Barebone_. Of course, that would be the name of the pale sad boy, who merely nodded at the mention of his name and didn't even bother to look up and meet Newt's gaze.

 _No wonder he looks so sour_ , he thought as he looked away from the boy to accept the beer Joey (or Johnny?) offered him. _With that name_.

“Kinda sounds like a funeral,” someone said and the whole room went silent.

Newt looked up, very much confused and was about to ask what was wrong when he noticed that every single pair of eyes was directed at _him_. That had been _his_ voice. Oh, dear.

“The names, I mean,” he elaborated, shrinking under the weight of their gazes, and then quickly added: “The surnames.” Silence. “Barebone. Redurn. As in _red urn_? Black, Graves...”

He trailed off, panic starting to rise in his chest as there was no reaction. His hands felt sticky from cold sweat and his leg was killing him as he already imagined Mr Barebone handing him over his very last wage before kicking his now-jobless butt out of his house. Newt was already trying to remember if he'd recently seen any job announcements when there was... a laugh. Someone was _laughing_.

Now every head (including his) turned to look at Credence Barebone, of all people, who was laughing so hard he almost fell from his bar stool. And somehow that was all it took for the entire room to break into a fit of laughter. Hands clapped his shoulders and his back and he forced a short chuckle out of himself, though it ended up sounding strained and almost a little hysterical since he still felt like he was about to either faint or have a panic attack.

“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, I didn't know ya had it in ya, boy!” Mr Barebone laughed and ruffled his hair before clapping his back again and Newt nearly collapsed against the bar counter from its force. “I guess that's the British humour, eh?”

“You're a Brit?” Joey or Joey 2 asked and Newt wondered whether it was too late to excuse himself to the toilet, leave through the bathroom window and be forgotten about. (Un-)Fortunately, Mr Barebone decided to answer for him: “Uh huh. Work's like a Mexican, though.”

“I knew he was Mexican!” one of the old ladies whispered loudly and two hummed in agreement.

 _There we go again_ , he thought and dragged a hand over his face.

It felt like a saving grace when the door to the kitchen opened and a middle-aged woman with wild locks beamed at them. “The Turkey is ready, so get your asses over here and help setting the table, boys!” she laughed and everyone immediately made their way over to the kitchen while Newt remained standing at the bar counter, feeling like he just escaped his execution. He had no idea what would have happened if that boy hadn't laughed. Hell, he didn't even know why they all reacted as if he had just shot someone in the face and shrugged it of with a nonchalant ' _Oops_ \- _Sorry_ , _mate_!'. Then again, his social skills were practically non-existent, so it was probably just him being weird again. Holding his tongue was – as always – the best course of action.

Willing his leg to cooperate, he went to the kitchen and carefully avoided running anyone over since most of the guests were already in the midst of carrying the food to the dining area. He himself grabbed a random bottle of wine, so there was no risk that his limp could cause him to let an entire plate of food go to waste by acquainting it with the floor. The children were already sitting down and he noticed that the smaller ones were sharing chairs to make more room for more people. The entire family was milling around the table, placing plates and bottles on its surface and sitting down. Newt awkwardly waited for everyone to take a seat in order to not separate any groups, gripping the wine bottle as if his life depended on it.

“Does your lap dog need an official invitation, Will?” Ed (definitely Ed) asked, throwing him a dirty look and making him shrink even more. Quickly, he made his way to the last empty chair, promptly forgetting to camouflage his limp, and placed the bottle next to a salad bowl. The two women on either side of him were staring holes into his temples as he placed his hat on his lap and tried not to show his embarrassment too much. _Well_ , _this is going well_.

Mr Barebone cleared his throat. “Okay, let's pray in unison,” he said and everyone started to grab their neighbour's hand. Newt quickly wiped his sweaty fingers on his black jeans before taking the women's hands and hoped that something short was chosen. Of course, it ended up being the Lord's Prayer.

The Scamander's weren't exactly religious people, Newt even less so, and therefore he found himself silently mouthing along to whatever was being said since he never learnt a single prayer in his entire life. For a moment, he was confident that no one had noticed as his hands were let go off – Until he noticed Credence Barebone staring at him.

Even from this distance, he could see that his eyes were pitch black and incredibly intense as their gazes locked. It almost felt like he was being challenged when he noticed the amusement lurking underneath this all-consuming darkness. He _knew_.

Awkwardly, Newt tried for a smile that was answered with a silent huff and a tiny shake of the teen's head.

Newt didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed when those dark eyes were re-directed at Mr Barebone who already started to cut pieces out of the huge Roasted Turkey .

“Here you go, Scamander,” the man chuckled and Newt held his plate out for him, smiling and nodding in thanks. His stomach was rumbling and the food smelled absolutely delicious, especially since he hadn't had a decent meal in months. After all, his cooking skills were catastrophic and the food he regularly ate at the diner was just a smidge better.

“Hopefully, that gets some meat on your bones,” the man, he remembered to be John Redurn, laughed and held out his plate himself. “You're so skinny, if you stood sideways and stuck out your tongue, you'd look like a zipper.”

Laughter erupted throughout the table and Newt forced a chuckle out of himself as well. It wouldn't do to anger anyone again after having been saved from a beheading, just because he couldn't take a joke. After all, he was well aware of his not-so-impressive figure that had gotten even worse after the Rodeo accident and it wasn't like he was ashamed of it either – Still, he felt his face heat up a little and distracted himself by adding some mashed potatoes to his plate.

“Now, now, stop teasing the young man,” the woman with the curly hair said. “After all, he's quite the looker, isn't he?”

At that, she nudged the blonde girl beside her with her elbow and giggled as she blushed and averted her gaze. Newt didn't know what to say to that, so he simply smiled again, reached for the bottle of wine and hoped someone would finally change the topic.

“He walks funny,” the creepy little girl from earlier said bluntly and Newt almost spilled some wine on the white table cloth as he opened the bottle. “Why?”

Just like earlier, the whole table seemed to turn his attention towards him at that. The skin of his face felt cold and hot all at once, his hands were sweatier than ever and he regretted every choice he ever made in his life. Swallowing his unease, he forced himself to smile again.

“Well, ah, that's a funny story,” he chuckled, even though he didn't think the story was funny at all but he'd learnt over the years that people appreciated when tragedies were treated with humour. “Stupid me thought becoming a Rodeo king was a good idea. After a year, I felt pretty confident that I got the knack of it but I was proven quite wrong. 'was a Thursday, I think. Not even a second in the game, the bull bunged my British posterior to the floor and, unfortunately, the Rodeo clown was dead drunk, so the bull had quite some time to, _er_ , play with me. Seems like we both chose the wrong job.”

He fake-chuckled again but no one was laughing with him and he lowered his gaze, pouring himself a glass of wine and chugging that one down with two gulps. Fortunately, Mr Barebone took the silence as a cue to finally change the topic and draw the attention away from him with his own Rodeo stories. It didn't take long for the mood to loosen and he was relieved when no one dared to address him again. Newt preferred to eat the delicious food in silence (even though the memory of him lying in the dirt and screaming as the bull crushed his knee, made him lose some of his appetite) and to simply observe the scene. The laughter was nice, just like the jokes and the familiarity with which they all treated each other. Back home, he never experienced that with his parents as he'd always felt like an unwelcome guest next to his perfect brother. Sometimes, he wondered if they had felt relief, that first Christmas without him, that first year in which they didn't have to throw him a birthday party. He was used to being a burden, used to ruin the mood. It was better for everyone involved to just ignore him. That way, he could just quietly observe – and observe he did.

Throughout dinner, he came to some conclusions regarding the Barebone family:

First of all, Credence, the biscuit bowl-girl 'Chastity' and the creepy child 'Modesty' were siblings. It wasn't hard to guess, given that they were the only ones with such horrible names forced upon them.

Secondly, no one talked to Credence. He was being carefully avoided in conversations, just like Newt himself. Chastity on the other hand was pretty popular while Modesty at least seemed quite close to the boy she was sharing a chair with.

Thirdly, none of the adults present were their parents.

He didn't realise it at first, but after a while he noticed how every single youth in the room had already addressed one of the adults as “Mum” or “Dad”, except them. Furthermore, there were only three adult Barebone-couples present in total and Chastity had called one of each couple “Uncle” or “Aunt” throughout dinner.

It wasn't any of Newt's business but he did wonder where their parents were and if their absence had anything to do with that sad look on Credence's face. He had half a mind to ask Mr Barebone about it later but decided against it. Curiosity killed the cat and he wasn't very keen on giving the man even another reason to fire him.

 

As interesting as his observations were: After dessert, he was desperate to leave.

He wanted nothing else but to thank Mr Barebone for the invitation, compliment Mrs Barebone on the wonderful meal and then get the bloody hell out of this house. Admittedly, it was nice being around people for a change but there were just too many of them with too many uncomfortable questions and scrutinizing gazes. Especially the old ladies seemed to positively hate him and the men looked at him with a mix of amusement and pity. He wasn't sure whether that was because of a. his limp, b. his heritage, c. him being a 'wanna-be' cowboy, d. his entire being or e. all of the above.

Anyhow, he was slightly drunk from all the wine he chugged down to ease the tension in his shoulders and even though his interactions had been minimal, he felt like they had already drained all energy off his bones.

He was about to approach Mr Barebone to say goodbye when he noticed that the man was already three sheets to the wind and very busy telling a story about the one time he gave a guy twice his size a black eye for looking at his 'girl' a second too long. Scared of the possibility that the man could start boasting stories about Newt himself once he was reminded of his existence, he decided to leg it and pray that it wouldn't cost him his job in the end.

Quickly, he slipped into his leather jacket, clapped his hat on and sleaked off through the front door. The cool wind felt like freedom as he descended the little stairs. Before a sigh of relief could leave his lips, however, he was startled by a voice.

“You're leaving?”

Stopping dead in his tracks, he forced himself not to curse and, slowly, turned around.

Credence Barebone was sitting on a bench in front of the house; shoulders hunched, a bottle of beer in his hand. His skin looked even paler in the dim light of the street lamp and, even though he had left off a jacket, he didn't seem cold in the least.

“Ah, well,” Newt stammered, obviously playing for time as he cleared his throat for no reason at all, “It happens that I... well, I... just needed a smoke.”

The lie fell flat and Credence didn't look convinced in the least but he nodded anyway, taking a swig of his beer. To be quite honest, Newt had no idea what to do next. He couldn't very well leave now, no matter if Credence knew that he had been lying, but he didn't want to stay either. He had had enough human contact this evening to last him a year. Still, he eventually approached the boy, leaning against the wall between the bench and the front door (He stood right next to the door, staying more than an arm's length away from Credence.) and fumbled for his cigarettes.

Smoking was a bad habit that he'd taken on when he started working on ranches since everyone around him had seemed to be doing it and he had been desperate to blend in. Now, he only ever smoked when stressed or nervous and, right now, he was both. He feared for the uncomfortable but inevitable small talk that was about to follow and hoped that there wouldn't be any more questions about his limp or his heritage or why he didn't know a single prayer.

The small talk never came.

Instead, Credence resumed taking swigs of his beer once in a while, eyes focused on nothing in particular while Newt let the cigarette burn down as the tension left his body. The silence was unexpectedly comfortable.

He had half a mind to ask if Credence was even old enough to be drinking beer or why he wasn't wearing a jacket or why he was sitting alone out here in the first place – However, he was too grateful for not being asked any questions, so he decided to return the favour and zip it up. It was none of his business anyway.

When Credence stood up, Newt couldn't help but flinch and watch him making his way back to the front door. He paused before entering.

“I'll tell Uncle Will that you weren't feeling well,” he said and turned to look at him, making Newt flinch again as he noticed how close they were with Credence standing a little higher due to the stairs. Throwing his cigarette to the ground and squelching it underneath his shoe, he tipped his hat in thanks and dared to meet those dark, intense eyes one more time.

He wanted to say something, anything, but then Credence was already turning away and he was left staring at the cute, blue door.

 

Newt didn't realise yet that this had been the first red flag.

 

 


	3. The second red flag: Percy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt regrets a lot of things - Depending on the day. Today, isn't a good one.

If Newt had to describe his life with a single word, it would be: Boring.

Boredom was something he didn't handle well, even (or especially?) after being bored for over a year. Ever since he lost the full capacity of his leg, he felt an _itch_ gnawing at the back of his head. He wanted to do _something_ but he didn't know what and he was pretty sure that his limp would hinder him from doing it anyway. He regretted that awful day in August, wished he would have just stayed in bed for a little longer to go on and look for yet another job at another ranch. Actually, he should have never started with Rodeo to begin with.

On some days, his regret went even further than that. Every once in a while, he thought that maybe he shouldn't have left London in the first place. His life would have been very different if he had just finished school to study Zoology, so he could do what he loved most: Work with fantastic and exotic animals. In another universe, he wouldn't sit in this shithole of an apartment, wouldn't drink cheap tea and eat dry toast with scrambled eggs at 11 AM. If he had been a little more patient, a little more _reasonable_ , he could have had a good life.

But he had been _bored_ back in England. And he did the most stupid of things when he was bored.

Now that he was older, though, he liked to think that he was a little wiser. No matter how annoying that itch got, he didn't succumb to it. He simply ignored it, went through his day without getting into trouble and then went to bed. Rinse, repeat and so on.

Adding his dirty plate to the dishes piling in his kitchen sink, he took a cold shower, brushed his teeth and massaged the muscles around his knee area with horse balm. (It reeked like hell but did wonders for his leg.) Yawning, he slipped into his black jeans and put on his favourite belt he had acquired back in El Paso. Flicking his finger against the metal, he smiled at the memory of his Rodeo career, the feeling of a strong, warm beast underneath his thighs, the thrill of the rush as he fought the bull by holding on tight, a wild, deathly dance – which immediately reminded him of the one _dance_ that ruined his life, wiping the smile out of his face in an instant. Without further unnecessary pondering, he randomly grabbed a white shirt with an eagle embroidered on the back, tucked it in and rolled the sleeves up. Slipping into his black boots, he noticed how worn out they were – just like the rest of his clothes – and sighed.

The truth was, that even though he worked his ass off at the bar 6 days a week, he couldn't afford much more than this miserable room and even more miserable food, let alone new boots. At least not without giving up his dream of a driving license and his own pick up truck which he had been saving for ever since El Paso. It was an expensive dream and it was hard cutting back as much as he did. The consequences were already there for anyone to see. He has never been overly broad or muscular but he did notice that he was constantly losing a tiny bit of weight with the lack of hard work and hearty food. It could be his imagination but he found that he did look younger than he actually was when he looked into the mirror. He didn't like that thought.

Grabbing his jacket, his hat and his keys, he left his apartment, locked the door just to be safe, and then descended the stairs, slipping into his jacket on the way out of the ratty building.

“Morning, cowboy,” one of the scary women, that probably were hookers, said as they crossed paths. He tipped his hat wordlessly and quickened his pace. She used to try and flirt him into her apartment but if he was ever afraid of anything in his life, it was intimate contact with women. There was no particular reason as to why that was, it was simply a fact he couldn't quite explain. It seemed like she noticed it because she quickly stopped trying to seduce him and instead smiled at him with something akin to a knowing expression every time she saw him. He didn't know what exactly she thought she knew and, frankly, he didn't even want to. He preferred not to think about it.

Grocery shopping was a quick endeavour, leaving him with enough time to stand at the lattice fence of Ford's car dealer and stare at the truck of his dreams. It wasn't the most impressive one around – its model was neither particularly new nor was its design overly modern. Actually, it had more of a vintage vibe to it and its green auto paint looked beautifully ridiculous. Ever since he came to Austin no one had bought that particular truck. The romantic in him refused to believe it was a coincidence, no, he was _convinced_ that it was destined to be his. If he just had enough money. Or at least a driving license.

 

Dead on time, he made it to _Knotted Knickers_ , Mr Barbone's pride and joy, and immediately went to place the chairs back down at their tables and get the bar ready for business.

Since it was Wednesday and nowhere near the season for booming tourism, Newt didn't expect a lot of people to come in today. So, when he was finished, he decided to sit at the bar for a bit to go easy on his leg before the first customers showed up. Leaning over the counter, he retrieved the manual, he got from the driving school, from its hidden place behind the napkins and flipped through the pages until he found the chapter about speed limits. By now, he could cite the whole thing by heart but he still read it over and over again, just to make sure that he'd pass the theoretical test with flying colours once the time has come.

Mr Barebone arrived half an hour later – with Credence in tow.

“Scamander,” the man said and Newt quickly shut the book and hid it behind his back as he jumped off the bar stool and hurried behind the counter. Luckily, Mr Barebone wasn't even looking at his direction, instead, his gaze was focused on the paper he held in his hands – Credence on the other hand was staring straight at him, backpack dangling from his loose grip on its handle.

“Hiwhey,” he mumbled as his brain couldn't quite decide between 'Hi', 'Howdy' and 'Hey' and he had to suppress the urge to face palm at his own stupidity. Credence merely nodded though and turned his attention back to Mr Barebone.

“Those damn vultures,” he cursed and stomped to his office, slamming the door shut and leaving him alone with his nephew, who stood there all dressed up with nowhere to go.

An uncomfortable moment of silence followed as Newt was staring at Credence and Credence was staring at the shut door. When he turned, however, Newt quickly lowered his gaze. It has been a week since Thanksgiving. As promised, the boy had told Mr Barebone that Newt hadn't felt well and went home to lie down for a bit, not wanting to ruin the mood by having anyone fuss or worry over him at a party. Newt even got a call from Mrs Barebone the next day, asking if he was alright and if he needed anything. He should probably thank him for lying – and congratulate him at being so good at it because he himself was the worst liar of all times.

Clearing his throat, he was about to do just that when Credence got him to it: “What are you reading?”

He blinked in confusion and then he could feel his cheeks warming up a bit. “Er,” he stammered, gripping the manual a little too hard. “Nothing.”

 _Very convincing_ , _Scamander_.

Newt hadn't noticed that little spark of interest in Credence's eyes until it disappeared and was replaced by this sour look he sported all the time. Without even knowing what he said to make the boy look at him like that, he was just about to apologize when he was suddenly approached. The backpack met the ground with a thud as Credence leant against the counter, not meeting his eyes as he whispered: “If Uncle Will catches you with this sorta... stuff... he's gonna fire you.”

The gear wheels of his mind were turning and turning, trying to decipher what he was talking about, when he finally understood. Oh, _no_.

His face turned as red as a beetroot and he almost felt dizzy from how fast the blood shot up into his head. Credence thought he was reading... stuff. _Sexual_ stuff. Despite his age, Newt was as innocent in that regard as a newborn foal and the mere mention of _stuff_ made him uncomfortable and nervous.

“I- It's not- I wasn't-” he stammered, hesitating for a mere second before positively slamming the manual on the counter for Credence to look at. He knew it was stupid that it embarrassed him so much to admit that he still hadn't a driving license. Many people didn't have a driving license, right? That's what buses and other public means of transport were there for. There was no shame in it. None at all.

Newt still snatched the manual back after barely three seconds and placed it at its hidden spot, head bowed so his hat could hide the redness of his cheeks that was still there.

Credence didn't say a word.

“I swear, these idiots wouldn't find their asses with both hands in their back pockets,” Mr Barebone grumbled when he returned, joining them at the counter. “Fix me a drink, Scamander.”

Relieved at the distraction, he scurried to place a glass before him and quickly opened a bottle of whiskey. The clack of his boots on the floor sounded far too loud in the silence filling the room and Newt quickly poured the liquor into the glass. Mr Barebone snatched it away though and he spilled some of it in surprise but the man seemed too mad to notice (or to care) and let it slide.

“You're a good boy, Scamander,” he suddenly said as he lowered his now-empty glass again and Newt looked up, clearly confused at the change of topic. “If more people were like you, I wouldn't have to throw so many hissy fits all the goddamn time.”

He didn't know what to say to that.

Forcing himself to a somewhat flattered but definitely confused smile, he quickly wiped the counter, trying to think of anything to say but nothing came to mind. A slight tingle ran down his spine and, as if on instinct, he turned his head a bit and met Credence's gaze. He almost recoiled, startled at the intensity of those dark eyes, especially, since he couldn't read his expression in the least. The boy's face was carefully blank and it unnerved him a bit, after all, he wasn't used to being the centre of attention, wasn't used to compliments and looks like that. Newt couldn't remember the last time he felt so helpless in a situation as mundane as this one.

“Sorry, I gotta leave ya to it, boy,” Mr Barebone said, rubbing his hands over his face. “I've been runnin' all over hell's half acre while those assholes ain't done nothin' yet. Their fuckin' deliveries are slower than a Sunday afternoon and we're runnin' out of vodka for fuck's sake.”

“It's no biggie,” Newt said calmly and smiled a tiny bit, taking the empty glass to go and clean it. Mr Barebone looked at him, slightly amused at his not-exactly-Southern expression without any doubt, before making his way over to the exit. Then he paused.

“Credence, for fuck's sake, I ain't got all day,” he called and turned around, clearly exasperated as he wiggled his car keys at him. Newt looked up from the sink, surprised to see Credence still leaning at the counter, gaze lowered. “Percy 's been waitin' for ya, too.”

Maybe Newt was imagining things but he could have sworn that he saw the boy tense, something dark passing his features. The very next moment, however, he seemed as composed as ever and bent to pick up his backpack. Something about that look worried him to no end and the way Credence barely bothered to lift his feet as he approached Mr Barebone made it look like he was on his way to a funeral.

“What are you doing at, er, _Percy_ 's place?” he suddenly asked and immediately regretted it. Mr Barebone stared at him as if he wanted to kill him for wasting even more of his time and Credence turned to look at him as if he had grown a second head. Throwing them a smile, he stood his ground and waited for an answer.

“He's tutoring me in maths,” Credence eventually said and, again, something about the way he said it just didn't feel right. His people reading skills were horrible but at that moment, Newt didn't need any people reading skills – What he saw was an old bull being led to the Rodeo stalls, obedient enough because it already knew that there was no way out with five men surrounding him. He didn't know what Credence's 'Rodeo' with _Percy_ entailed but it worried him.

The following idea was even worse than the Thanksgiving one but his mouth decided to run all by itself as he claimed: “I can help you with that.”

Both men stared at him with disbelief.

“I am good at maths,” he insisted, still smiling in hopes that it made him look any more trustworthy but – as was already established before – he was a horrible liar. On the one hand, it was kind of true since he had very good grades at maths back in school but on the other, he had been on his way to Texas with little more than a backpack thrown over his shoulder way before he even reached Credence's age. It was too late to take it back though. When met with Mr Barebone's disapproving stare, he quickly added: “Besides, it's going to be a very slow day.” A pause. “Today.” _Come on_ , _Newt_. “And Mr Barebone seems like he could use skipping that ride.”

 _That_ did the trick.

“Okay,” Credence said as he looked at him funnily and made his way back to him. Mr Barebone huffed, leaving without saying goodbye and then they were alone.

Silently, the boy took a seat at the end of the bar counter, leaning against the wall, and started to put books and a huge folder on its surface as well as pens and a ruler and other stuff he himself hadn't used for almost 10 years. He closed his eyes for moment, already feeling shame wash over him when he felt Credence staring at him. Meeting his gaze for about half a second, he smiled again and set the glass back to its place before limping over to him.

“So, what do you need help with?” he asked cheerfully, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the counter so he could take a look at his notes.

“Integral calculus,” was the short answer and Newt already felt his mind blacking out, taking one look at the array of numbers and letters in brackets and weird charts. Tipping his hat a little to hide his face, he bit his lip as silence laid itself on their shoulders like a heavy blanket.

A small huff left his lips.

“You must be very smart,” he murmured as he took the maths book and skimmed through its pages. For a moment, he dwelled in the memory of the Hogwarts Independent School, of his favourite teacher – Albus Dumbledore – and his only friend and crush Leta Lestrange. It felt like a dream, now, so many years later.

“Why did you lie?” Credence suddenly asked and caused him to snap out of his thoughts. Still hiding underneath his hat, he leaned back and stared at the opposite corner of the bar as he was too ashamed to meet those dark – and probably angry – eyes.

There was no hiding from an answer though since he had to speak at some point, so he sighed and admitted: “You seemed... uncomfortable. Resigned in a way, but still scared. Or angry. Or both. Being tutored may be annoying but that look meant something else.” He paused. “I'm terribly sorry if I was being presumptuous. I hope you're not having an exam tomorrow?”

A tense smile passed his lips and he counted the scratches on his leather boots, obviously to avoid eye-contact like the coward he was when it came to people. A whole minute of tense silence followed.

“No,” Credence eventually said, very softly – almost _timidly_. “There's no exam tomorrow.”

He didn't comment on Newt's amateurish attempt at people reading and he wasn't looking at him either when he dared a peak himself. Instead, the boy remained hunched over his maths notes, staring at them intently without actually reading anything if the lack of movement of his eyes was any indication at all. Maybe, just maybe, he had been right about his assumption.

The first customer walked in and Newt pushed himself of the wall, relieved at the distraction as he took in his order and handed him his beer, humming along as the man chatted about his stressful workday. Whenever Newt shot him a look, Credence was scribbling something into his notebook and at some point, he quietly placed a glass of Coke next to his folder which the boy didn't acknowledge immediately. There was no thanks given but Newt hadn't expected one anyway.

At 8 PM, the boy packed up his things, nodded as their gazes locked for a moment, and left.

 

When he went to bed that night, he wondered who this _Percy_ was and why Credence seemed to be afraid of him.

This red flag he didn't miss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think we all know who Percy is. And maybe some of you may even guess which creature made it into this chapter in a different form? Oh, and here's some hot Cowboy!Newt for you guys to gawk at: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/9d/7d/09/9d7d09253c2908544cf19e1f668541e9.jpg
> 
> Makes me want to go back to Texas. (Fun fact: I was born there. Yep, I'm somewhat kinda American. Oh, dear.)


	4. The third red flag: A lesson not learnt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt struggles with calculus and a realisation, he'd rather not have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise about the calculus nonsense mentioned. I have no fucking idea what calculus is about, so if you're a maths genius, don't feel offended at the stupid stuff I'm writing here. I am not better than a donkey when it comes to maths.

So, maybe, Newt's boredom was getting a little out of hand.

The day had started like any other – dull breakfast, cold shower, quick massage, grocery shopping...

Now, usually, the next step would have been to go to Ford's and stare at his beautiful pick up truck, like the sad arse he was. But that day was different. This time, he stopped in his tracks on his way back home, staring at the shop window of the local bookstore.

There was a black book. A simple black book with blue letters. “Calculus,” Newt mouthed silently as he hesitatingly approached the shop, unsure as of what to do. Ten years had already passed by since he had last attended a maths lesson and the mere thought of him doing _calculus_ was ridiculous. Maths was something for smart, educated people like Credence Barebone – Not that he actually knew what Credence Barebone was like, but he found it hard to picture anyone with eyes like that as someone _stupid_. No, that boy was intelligent. He was sure of it.

He would probably have a laugh at Newt if he knew that he was actually considering to buy a book on calculus to try and _tutor_ him. Absolutely ridiculous.

 _I am as mad as a bag of ferrets_ , he thought when he entered the bookstore and went straight for that book on calculus. It was best not to ponder on it for too long, so he limped to the checkout and pointedly avoided looking at the lady behind the counter. She greeted him which he met with a nod, hat tipped to hide his face, and went on to put the book in a plastic bag.

“That's 47.99 dollars,” she said and Newt couldn't help but look up with wide eyes. That was a lot of money – It was a week worth of decent food if he was clever. He had half a mind to apologise and leave but the elderly woman met his gaze with sharp eyes and a raised eyebrow and he quickly fumbled for his briefcase. His hands were all clammy when he handed her the 50 dollar bill and it almost physically hurt to watch her take it.

Grabbing the bag with the book, he barely waited for her to hand him the change before he limped out of the bookstore as fast as he could.

50 dollars for a book. Being smart was an expensive trait as it seemed.

 

He arrived at _Knotted Knickers_ far too early, quickly prepared the bar to open at 17 o'clock and took a seat at the counter. Now, Newt wasn't one of these people that usually needed a drink to get themselves to do something unpleasant but he decided that _calculus_ did call for a glass of whiskey. Downing the stuff with a single gulp, he opened the book and swiftly started to read, holding on to the fact that once he had been good at maths.

One page in, he poured himself another glass.

 

“You've been quite distracted today,” Harold – one of their patrons – commented as Newt mulled over _Operations on complex numbers_ , his head filled with numbers and letters and _bi_ s as he tried to get a feel of what was what and how to proceed if _1_ _²_ _= -1_ and...

He closed his eyes and shook his head a little. “Terribly sorry,” he mumbled and licked his lips. “Do you need a refill?”

“No, 's fine, Scamander,” Harold said and took a swig of his beer as he watched him with an amused twinkle in his eye. “'was jus' wonderin' what got your lil' head so busy.”

Something about the way he said it as well as the sly grin on his face made him feel very uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Harold was kind of a noisy guy, especially when it came to Newt's lack of girlfriends or, er, _playmates_ as he had once slurred. It wasn't hard to image what the man thought Newt was pondering about and he had long given up on contradicting him. So, he settled for a short, apologetic smile and tried to get his focus back on work even though it was an unusually slow Thursday. In a way, it was kind of relieving since they were still running out of vodka and Mr Barebone hadn't managed to refill their stock yet. However, his boss was prone to get in a bad mood at the end of the month whenever profits didn't end up being as high as expected and that usually led to random comments about Newt's limp, British expressions, lanky frame and everything else that was distinctly, well, _himself_.

Shaking the thought of Mr Barebone and his not-very-pleasant way to deal with lacking profits off, he peeked into the calculus book and read: _The distance to the origin is usually denoted as_ _ **r**_...

 

 

 

Three cups of Earl Grey (and one or two beers) were needed to get him through two hours of _The basics of Integral calculus_ the next Friday morning. Already feeling completely knackered, he finished his seventh exercise, praying to all the Gods he didn't believe in that he finally, _finally_ got it right this time –

“Oh, _Bugger_!”

 

 

 

Mr Barebone had been staring at him for the past thirty minutes as Newt wiped the tables, repeating _The Steps to build Intuition for the Derivative_ over and over in his mind and wordlessly mouthing along to them.

“Scamander,” he said and Newt absent-mindedly hummed. “You look like you've been rode hard and put up wet.”

Another hum.

“How many hours did you sleep? Four?”

Newt paused.

“No,” he murmured. “If _x_ _²_ was _4_ , _2x_ _²_ and _dx_ _²_ would be _32_ and _48_ , which doesn't work if _x_ _² + 6 = 2x_ and the derivative of _x² + 88_ is also _2x_.”

“...What?”

He turned to Mr Barebone.

“What?”

 

 

 

“ _Sod this_!” he shouted two days later at 3 AM as he cocked up yet another exercise, feeling the veins on his temples pulse in irritation at his own dullness. There had been a reason for him to hate and then abandon school completely and this book painfully reminded him of that.

 _A very good reason indeed_ , he thought as he ripped another page out of his notebook and tossed it into the rubbish bin. His head was hurting, as well as his hands, and he was almost shocked at the raw anger thudding against his ribcage. Newt wasn't an angry person by any means but this book... _this book_ -...!

Yet, he still forced himself to calm down and start all over again.

 

 

 

Tuesday afternoon, Newt startled the few people that were sitting and drinking at the counter of _Knotted knickers_ by throwing his hat towards the ceiling and shouting: “YES, SWEET MOTHER OF JESUS SODDING CHRIST, YES!!!”

Almost collapsing against the counter, he felt close to tears as he poured himself a glass of whiskey with shaking hands and laughed almost maniacally.

Hesitantly, the women nearest to him leaned forward and asked: “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Newt practically sobbed as he looked up at them, all gooey-eyed and smiling. “It's seven – Seven! _C = 7!_ ”

 

 

 

Wednesday evening, Newt found himself at work a little too early, having run (half-jumped, half-limped actually) all the way to escape the rain, so he took his time to prepare the bar for a slow day and whistled along to the radio as he did so. For some reason, he woke up _vibrating_ with excitement and neither the cold shower nor the unfortunate weather managed to wipe the smile out of his face as he waited for Mr Barebone to arrive.

Tugging at his wet shirt, he was considering to go to the man's bathroom and use the hand dryer to get rid of some of its dampness when the door opened.

“Scamander,” Mr Barebone said and Newt simply nodded, still whistling along to some country song as he stared at the door with anticipation. When it opened a second time, he couldn't help the smile as Credence walked in, hood drawn over his forehead and backpack dangling from his fingers. There was a pink tint on his nose and cheeks when he wiped his face with the sleeve of his black hoodie, right before their eyes met. Newt immediately lowered his gaze, tipped his hat in greeting, still embarrassed about the “Hiwhey”-incident, and smiled broadly before turning to lower the volume and whistle along to the next song. Mr Barebone mumbled something about “cows pissin' on a flat rock” as he went to his office, leaving his nephew standing there just like the week before.

“Fancy a drink?” Newt asked, apparently startling the boy if that flinch was any indication at all, and waggled a bottle of Coke for good measure.

Dark eyes stared at him, Credence's face sporting that sour look again, and when there was no answer, he simply shrugged and poured him a glass anyway. Adorned with a slice of lemon, he placed it on the counter and dropped two ice cubes in it, throwing the boy a smile before turning his attention towards the radio again, changing the channel when the song got replaced by the News.

He could hear some shuffling behind him, the thud of a heavy backpack placed unceremoniously on the floor and, when he looked at Credence again, he was settling into the same corner as last week, glass of Coke in hand. With a sloppy motion, he removed the hood from his head, revealing a nest of relatively short, tousled hair, and then used his sleeve again to wipe his jaw and neck which were still glistening from some wet residue of the rain. It wasn't until Mr Barebone returned, startling Newt and causing him to quickly look away, that he noticed that he had been _staring_.

“All's ready, come on, Credence,” he said as he made his way to the door while fiddling with an umbrella.

Oh. Of course, he wasn't staying.

Disappointment settled heavy on his shoulders and he quickly turned to switch the radio off, suddenly not in the mood for whistling anymore. The boy needed a real tutor anyway, someone like _Percy_ , who surely had a scholar education – Maybe the guy even was a university student and not some donkey like Newt himself who, a week ago, didn't even know what _integral calculus_ was. It didn't matter how hard he had tried to get the knack of it, he barely understood it himself, so he really wasn't in any position to tutor anyone, right?

“I think, I'll stay.”

Both Newt and Mr Barebone stared at him, more than a little surprised, and the boy shrunk a little at that.

“Mr Scamander is good at explaining,” he lied smoothly, without batting an eye, and shrugged nonchalantly, “And he said, Wednesdays are slow days.” Those dark eyes were directed at Newt. “So, if it's alright with him, I'd like to stay.”

There was something akin to pleading in his eyes as the boy gripped the glass of Coke as if his life depended on it, his knuckles having turned white. This level of fear was unsettling to him and, even if he hadn't already made up his mind about helping him, it would have been impossible for him to refuse now. Despite the uneasy feeling at Credence's expression, he couldn't help the smile creeping into his face as he turned to a surprised Mr Barebone: “I wouldn't mind.”

The man looked at them funnily, almost impressed, and then slowly turned to leave. Once the door was shut, the tension left the boy's body and he immediately went to unpack his maths book, notebook and writing utensils. Again, there was no thanks given and, again, he hadn't expected one. Whistling to a song in his head, he limped over to Credence, leaning against the lower counter on his side of the bar.

After a moment, he dared to ask: “Why did you lie?”

There was a pause in which Newt could have sworn that he saw the corners of his mouth twitch before the backpack fell back to the floor and the boy lifted his head to look at him as expressionless as ever.

“Tutoring is annoying,” he said and Newt nodded, clearly remembering their last conversation. “Besides, it's going to be a rainy day.” A pause. “Today.”

Amusement twinkled in those dark eyes and Newt almost blushed when he remembered the nonsense he had stammered last week because lying had made him so nervous. He huffed, still embarrassed about that, and the boy turned his attention back to his notebook.

Silence settled over them, as Credence worked on an exercise – obviously homework – and Newt simply watched. It was kinda hard to read upside down but he managed, and when Credence paused for almost an entire minute, he had to suppress the grin that was tugging at the corner of his mouth as he was positive that he knew how to proceed.

“I think, the population function _P_ ( _t_ ) might be the antiderivative of _0.6t_ _²_ \+ _0.2t_ \+ _0.5_ ,” he suggested and Credence's gaze shot up, surprise written all over his face. It was a nice change from the sour look and the tense eyebrows.

Newt smiled, heart racing inside his chest as he felt both proud and nervous – anxious even – and he lowered his gaze, tipping his hat a little and scratching his ankle with the heel of his boot. After a moment of silence, Credence started to scribble again.

“You were right,” he said, softly, and it was hard not to punch the air in victory as he felt pride filling his chest. To not embarrass himself, he only hummed in response, biting his lip to keep himself from grinning.

Some time later, the door opened and Harold walked in, wet from head to toe. “That rain is a real frog wash,” he muttered as he approached the counter, snuffling loudly and sliding out of his jacket. Newt laughed softly and immediately went to get the man his usual beer, when Harold seemed to notice Credence.

“Aren't you a little young, eh?” he asked and took his beer without even looking at it, his eyes fixated on the boy.

Credence tensed and didn't answer.

“Hey, I'm talki-” he started but paused when Newt grabbed his arm. Harold stared at him, surprised at both the touch and the hard look on his face. He huffed. “'was just a question, man.”

“He's concentrating,” he said and let go of his arm. “Let him be.”

Raising his arms as a gesture of surrender, he didn't comment on Credence for the rest of the evening and even threw some other patrons warning looks when they seemed inclined to question his presence. It was weird, that this time around everyone seemed to notice him, when he had been blissfully ignored just a week earlier. Newt didn't realise until Credence packed his things, nodded at him and turned to leave, that it had been his own attention towards the boy that had made him so visible for everyone present.

“Who was that, Scamander?” one of them asked, genuinely interested. “Are you babysitting your girlfriend's brother?”

“No,” he said as he fixed the lady next to him a _Seven and Seven_ , shaking his head. “He's a friend.”

 

Newt didn't see Credence pause in the doorway and he didn't see Harold throwing him a funny look – After all, he was too preoccupied being shocked as realisation hit him: He wanted to be his friend. That's what this maths stuff had been about.

 

The last time, he had done something like that for anyone had been ten years ago.

It hadn't ended well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to upload here on Wednesdays and my series on Fridays. Let's see if I can keep that up despite school!


	5. The fourth red flag: The comfortability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new routine and a wonderful moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the late update. Just last chapter I announced I'd update regularly on Wednesdays and stuff and failed miserably at it. Part 8 of the series is taking its time, too, and I am sorry about that! I hope y'all aren't running off yet, especially, since the amount of Crewt fics are dwindling and its breaking my heart to see people leave this ship < / 3  
> Have fun with this chapter, though!

Newt's daily routine hadn't really changed that much, only a tiny bit actually, what with his new-found 'hobby' that was calculus and the tutoring taking place every Wednesday. But somehow he felt _reborn_.

Calculus got easier by the day, to the point that it didn't feel like a struggle anymore, instead, it had turned to an almost playful challenge. Normal people did Sudoku or crossword puzzles – Newt solved exercises on calculus. What's the difference, really?

He would be fooling himself, though, if he denied that he would fling that calculus book into the trash bin without a second thought if it wasn't for Credence Barebone.

To be quite honest, Newt had never been a very popular guy and he had always struggled with making friends because he had been seen as weird and awkward – and later on downright crazy when people found out about his nightly visits to the zoo. In all those years back in England, he only ever had one friend: Leta Lestrange.

And, in a way, Credence reminded him of her.

There was something about the silence they wrapped themselves up with, the way they looked at Newt with a cold neutrality displayed in their dark eyes and treated him as if he wasn't any different from anybody else. He wasn't sure if any of them considered him to be their friend but he definitely considered them _his_ friends – Even now, he referred to her as a friend despite their fallout 10 years ago while she probably hadn't spared him a thought ever since. Still. Leta had made him feel like he wasn't a freak. Credence made him feel like he wasn't a failure.

Being able to help someone as intelligent as him was wonderful and he relished in the feeling of being useful in a way. Its been weeks now ever since Credence started to turn up every Wednesday and, when the day was exceptionally slow, they mulled over exercises together, each trying their luck and then discussing the other's solution if they didn't match. If someone had told him he would one day bond with someone over calculus, he would have laughed straight in their faces but here he was: Sitting on the lower counter of the bar, back to the wall and working on an exercise while Credence was also scribbling, pausing, thinking it over, scribbling...

Their silence was companionable and comfortable, each lost in the same exercise and not even looking up when reaching for their respective drinks. (Newt taking swigs of a bottle of beer, Credence sipping on his glass of Coke.)

“I think I've got it,” Credence said, eyes still fixed on his notebook and tapping against his lower lip with his pencil. (Newt may or may not have looked at the movement for a moment longer than necessary.)

“I'll be finished in a jiffy,” he mumbled and turned his attention back to the his own paper, though, his gaze did flicker back to the boy every once in while as he was trying not to notice that little tug on Credence's right corner of his mouth. Newt wasn't sure if it was his British 'slang' that amused him or the fact that he had been faster than him. Either way, this not-quite-a-smile did things to Newt that confused him profoundly – like making him feel all warm and jittery inside, the butterflies-lying-eggs-in-your-stomach-kinda-thing he had only ever heard of but never truly experienced until then.

Funny, what a friendship did to you after so many years of social isolation. Because that's what it was, right? Excitement over having a friend. A _friend_.

“Okay, I am finished,” he said, throwing Credence a smile and turning his notebook so he could compare them. They looked at each other for a moment before those dark eyes lowered to Newt's exercise. He frowned.

“Oh, no,” Newt moaned, already knowing what that look meant, and took off his hat to let his head rest against the wall.

“I don't wanna do it all over again,” the boy said and took the maths book to flip through its pages until he reached the part with the solutions given and explained. A moment of silence followed. “We were both wrong.”

“No way.”

Newt snatched the book out of Credence's hands and stared at the page with a blank expression on his face. About a minute later, he met the boy's gaze, flung the book to the other end of the room without batting an eyelid and immediately grabbed his beer to take a much needed swig.

And then Credence laughed.

He almost spit his beer over the counter, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth, and turned to look at the boy with wide eyes. He was _laughing_.

Of course, he already heard him doing that once, back when they first met but didn't interact – This was different, though. Newt didn't know Credence then, didn't know that even something as mundane as a smile on that boy's face was as rare and precious as a shooting star or an Amur leopard in the wild. He knew now. And he _appreciated_ it now – The way his mouth stretched impossibly wide across his face, the corners of his mouth curling upwards, revealing white teeth and making those intense eyes sparkle with the closest thing to happiness that he had ever seen on Credence. It softened the striking edge of his cheekbones and made the angry fold between his brows disappear completely. Credence's laugh sounded higher than expected, almost like a bell ringing and it did something to Newt's insides that he couldn't quite describe.

He felt like he was hit by a brickwall, all dizzy and confused, as that boy grabbed his notebook and flung it into the air, still laughing, loose papers flying above their heads and falling like autumn leafs. Slowly, a smile crept unto his own features and he did the same with his notebook as he joined in on the laughter, the baritone of his own voice meeting Credence's tenor. Newt couldn't help but love the way it sounded.

“What's this mess about?” Mr Barebone asked as he walked into the bar, staring confusedly and disapprovingly at the maths notes scattered on the floor. Both Newt and Credence turned to look at him before breaking into another fit of laughter, their upper bodies curling forward and their faces going red. Scowling, Mr Barebone picked up Newt's notebook and approached them as Credence grabbed the abandoned hat to fan himself, leaning away from its owner as he tried to retrieve his head wear.

“So much for maths,” the man said but he didn't look particularly angry anymore, just a tad irritated and, in a way, somewhat impressed. “'s almost ten PM, Credence, we should head home.”

The boy choked on his own spit.

“What?” he sputtered and took a look at his wrist watch, his eyes widening in horror. “I... I didn't notice.”

Newt turned silent, sobered up at the prospect of Credence leaving already. (Hardly 'already', but he, too, hadn't noticed the time as the hours had ticked away faster than he expected.)

Mr Barebone seemed to notice his change of mood.

“'s 10 PM and no one's here yet, so let's close up for today, Scamander,” he mumbled as he put a cigarette into his mouth, fumbling for his lighter. Newt nodded sombrely, only smiling weakly when Credence placed the hat back on his head, the crease between his brows firmly back on its place. “Modesty and your Grandma already ate but our supper 's being delayed 'till everyone's home, so move yer asses.”

Quickly, Credence jumped from his bar stool to pick up his notes and Newt followed him as fast as he could with his limp, bending awkwardly as he tried not to put too much pressure on his bad knee. Luckily, it was quite easy to distinct their respective writing and, as Credence sorted out which page was who's, Newt started to put the chairs on the tables.

“Stop that nonsense, Scamander,” Mr Barebone interjected, unlit cigarette still dangling from his lips. “Ma' wife 's not a patient woman, so see that ya get yer ass in my damn truck.”

Newt's head whipped around to stare at the man who, in turn, rolled his eyes.

“Yer invited to supper,” he said, voice gruff and a little harsh but there was a surprising softness in his gaze. Newt couldn't help but beam at him and nod, letting go of the chair to approach Credence and take the notes that were his. He was still tucking the loose pages into his notebook when they made their way to Mr Barebone's truck, his limp even more noticeable than usual due to his being distracted.

“Does it hurt when you walk?” Credence asked very quietly when they stopped at the truck, making him flinch at the unexpected proximity.

“Ah, well,” he mumbled, laughing almost nervously as he opened the door to the back seat. “It depends, really.”

He climbed in, careful not to knock his hat off his head. To both his and Mr Barebone's surprise (if the man's frown was any indication at all), Credence slid in right after him, leaving the passenger seat empty. “Depends on what?” he asked, looking at Newt with genuine interest – No pity, just _interest_. It made talking about it so much easier.

“On the weather for one,” he finally said and chuckled when Credence tilted his head to the side like a confused kitten, the crease between his brows intensifying. “Since the surgery my leg reacts pretty strongly to cold and dampness.” At that, he pats his knee, stroking along the thigh like he usually does when the temperature makes his bones ache. (He doesn't notice Credence's eyes following the motion.) “Then, of course, it depends on how active I am. The more I run, walk or stand around, the more it hurts, obviously. Sometimes it even hurts when I am lying in a particularly bad position, so there's that.”

He chuckles and Credence does that little not-quite-a-smile again, no pity in his eyes. _No pity_. It almost made him feel whole again.

 

“We've got a guest,” Mr Barebone proclaimed as they took off their jackets and Newt placed his hat on a little table at the entrance. The house felt almost peaceful without all those people milling about and he noticed how some of the tension, he hadn't even noticed he had, disappeared.

Mrs Barebone and the girl, he remembered to be Chastity, were already sitting at the table, looking at him with surprise crossing their features. Newt smiled at them.

“Oh, dear, now I've only set the table for four people,” Mrs Barebone said as she rose to her feet, touching Newt's shoulder as she passed him. “You're very welcome, though, Mr Scamander.”

She _winked_ at him. Mumbling something that sounded like “thanks”, he followed Credence to the table and took a seat beside him, placing his maths notes awkwardly on his lap. He should probably say something, make conversation and be social and so on, but he honestly didn't know what to say, now that they weren't alone anymore. Credence, too, remained silent.

“So, you're tutoring my baby brother in maths?” Chastity suddenly asked, leaning forward and smiling at Newt, her chin resting on her delicate wrist. Newt returned the smile, gaze fixed on her chin when he found her round, bright eyes to be similarly intense as Credence's, making him too nervous to look at her.  
“I do,” he answered, desperately trying to think of something else to say. “Every Wednesday.” Chastity was staring at him like she expected more to follow. Oh, dear. “I am good at maths.”

Beside him, Credence's lips were twitching again and they shared a knowing look, remembering that first 'tutoring lesson' when Newt had no idea what calculus was about. It was their very own _inside joke_. Something, he never thought he would ever be able to share with anyone.

“So, here you go,” Ms Barebone said when she returned, placing a plate with wonderfully smelling food before him and some cutlery next to it. Newt thanked her, smiling, and couldn't help the rumbling of his stomach.

Once they were all seated and the prayer was spoken (with Credence grinning throughout the entire thing since Newt clumsily tried to actually participate instead of simply mouthing along), they dug into their food, the Barebone couple and Chastity casually conversing. It was interesting to hear them chat about their everyday life, their acquaintances, their jobs – and especially Chastity's stories about college made him... _ache_.

He could have had all that. Dinner with the family, friends to talk about, a university to attend. He could have had all that if he had just been _normal_. If he had just been more like _Theseus_.

Something touched his leg and he almost jumped from his seat, but willed himself to remain still when he realised that it was Credence's foot nudging him softly. Turning his head to look at the boy, he found those dark eyes directed at him with worry before he tilted his head like he did in the car, questioningly. A slight nod to the door.

_Do you need to get out for a bit?_

Blinking, he was too stunned to react for a long moment but then he smiled as reassuringly as he could and shook his head. He hesitated but then he nudged Credence's foot with his boot and blinked deliberately.

 _I'm okay, thank you_.

Credence nodded and they both turned their attention back to their food when they simultaneously noticed three pairs of eyes staring at them.

“Told ya,” Mr Barebone said, elbowing his wife, and Newt needed a moment before he finally understood what that soft look on their faces meant: Gratitude. “They're two peas in a pod.”

 

After dinner, Credence followed him to the door and watched him sliding into his jacket. He looked a little lost, standing there with the sleeves of his black hoodie stretched over his hands as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. His hunched shoulders and that familiar sour look made him look like a pouting child and that thought amused Newt to no end.

“I'll see you next Wednesday?” he asked, smiling at Credence as he clapped his hat on.

The boy nodded and Newt knew him well enough to know that nothing would follow after that – For some reason, Credence never said goodbye. Or hello. Or thanks. Or anything, really, depending on the day.

He didn't mind.

Opening the door, he turned one last time, tipped his hat with a smile and then went off.

Whistling all the way home, he felt happier than he had in a long while, clutching his notebook against his chest and thinking about how _comfortable_ he felt around Credence.

 

It didn't feel like a red flag.

 

Yet.

 


End file.
